We present this work in honor of the 75th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Let poetry be like a key
Opening a thousand doors
A leaf falls; something flies by;
Let all the eye sees be created
And the soul of the listener tremble.
Invent new worlds and watch your word;
The adjective, when it doesn’t give life, kills it.
We are in the age of nerves.
The muscle hangs,
Like a memory, in museums;
But we are not the weaker for it:
Resides in the head.
Oh Poets, why sing of roses!
Let them flower in your poems;
For us alone
Do all things live beneath the Sun.
The poet is a little God.